


Unacceptable

by Patchouli (lifelesslyndsey)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Beta Omega, Blink And You Miss it Dub Con, Heat Fic, Knotting, LETS GET IT ON, M/M, Office Sex, Secretary Sex, bottom!Derek, but seriously, it's all very marvin gaye, mentions of mpreg, no one doesn't want it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2494817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifelesslyndsey/pseuds/Patchouli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Hale is a jerk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unacceptable

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a supplanted version of my Supernatural Fic - This Unacceptable Heat. I pretty much just changed the names, some minor details, and fixed some errors. And to be honest, it suits this fandom WAY better. No plagiarism though, they're both my fics. So yeah, it's probably cheating, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. That fandom never really did get into Sasstiel.

THIS UNNACEPTABLE HEAT.

 

 

 

 

Mr. Hale was  a jerk.

 

A Capital H-O-T hot ass jerk.

 

He was of course, a lot of other things. Like a dick, an ass hole, an Alpha, a bastard, and also probably most important, he was Stiles's boss.

 

And a jerk. Did Stiles mention that Mr. Hale was a jerk? Yeah. Because he was.

 

But Stiles dealt with it. With the exception of Mr. Hale, his job could have been worse. Sure, it wasn't the publishing position he'd dreamed of in college, but such things had to be attained one rung-on-the-ladder at the time. Stiles was totally willing to climb that ladder. He was a hard working, dedicated, smart Omega. And he'd dealt with hot-head Alphas all his life. Mr. Hale was just one more jerk in a long line of jerks, but just because Stiles was an omega did not mean he was going to roll over and show his belly like a bitch.

 

He might have been a personal assistant, but Stiles was no ones bitch.

 

No matter how Mr. Hale might think.

 

He set his carefully stacked pile of folders on the corner of Mr. Hale desk wordlessly, each one tabbed with color-coordinated post-its, and re-edited by him personally for any (several) mistakes the proof-readers might have missed. Stiles was just super helpful like that.

 

“Tardiness is unacceptable, Mr. Stilinski .”

 

Stiles let his eyes wander to the industrial black clock hanging on the wall over Mr. Hale desk. “It's eight o'clock, Mr. Hale.” Like the jerk didn't know it. Stiles wasn't even actually scheduled to come in until eight thirty, but he always came in at seven-thirty so that he would be best prepared for the day and Mr. Hale's shit.

 

Mr. Hale looked up at him then, hazel eyes narrowing. “I asked for these folders first thing this morning.”

 

“Which is in half an hour,” Stiles replied, tight but congenial. He gritted his teeth and reminded himself that tomorrow was the first day of his blissful vacation, the one solid week of paid time off he received quarterly. Considering he worked six and seven day work weeks, and ten and twelve hour shifts, it was hardly a consolation prize. “My shift doesn't start until eight-thirty.”

 

Mr. Hale blinked at him once before his mouth went tight. “You come in at seven-thirty every morning. Unauthorized overtime is unacceptable, Mr. Stilinski . I don't appreciate you abusing---”

 

Clenching his teeth tighter, Stiles bit back a growl. Unauthorized overtime! Stiles had so much mandated over-time, he barely had time for unauthorized overtime! He barely had time to shit, somedays!! “I assure you Mr. Hale, that isn't a problem. I never clock in before eight-thirty. Payroll can confirm, I'm sure.”

 

Mr. Hale blinked at him again, frowning.  God, but the man was pretty. What a devastating waste, that such perfection packaged a total nut job. “Very well. You're dismissed.” He paused, pulling the stack of folders close, and opening the first one. “A coffee would have been nice.”

 

Twitching, Stiles nodded, smiling sweetly. “Of course.”

 

“Not from the break room.” Hale added, staring at the paper work before him over the top of his glasses.  It was both endearing and irritating.

 

“Starbucks?” Stiles ventured, but he knew better. Really, he did. Why did he bother?

 

As expected, Mr. Hale gave him a scathing look of unrepentant disgust. “Excuse me? Am I wearing skinny jeans and listening to emo music on my i-pod while typing frantically away at my Mac-book in a public setting, legs shoved up under some shoddy Ikea cafe table? No. Because I am not a hipster, Mr. Stilinski . Unacceptable. Triple Americano from the cafe on Fourth and Washington, please.”

 

Some how, Mr. Hale made the word 'please' come out like 'you fucking idiot'.

 

Smiling so wide his face hurt, Stiles simply nodded. “Of course, Mr. Hale.” He hoped his tone conveyed that 'Of course' really meant 'Why don't you try and pull that stick out of your ass while I'm gone?'

 

Some how though, he doubted it.

 

Stiles bought Mr. Hale his Americano from the nearest Starbucks and used the rest of the time it would have taken him to go to the cafe on Fourth and Washington to get a filthy blow job from the hipster barista with the double tongue piercings.

 

Mr. Hale aside, it was a pretty good morning.

 

He dipped into the employee lounge, shoving the paper cup into the microwave for a practiced 45 seconds before dumping it unceremoniously into the thermos he'd purchased specifically for the purpose of keeping Mr. Hale coffee warm in transport, after the man had thrown a fit of epic proportions when his coffee arrived (after the twenty minute cab ride from the cafe to the office) not brain-boiling hot.

 

He resisted the urge to spit in it. Just barely.

 

One more day, he reminded himself.

 

Setting the thermos on the desk, he took a step back and waited. Mr. Hale took a sip, burning his tongue like he always did, before popping the top off completely, steam billowing from the wide rim. Enjoy your watered-down hipster coffee, jerk.

 

“That will be all Mr. Stilinski .” He took another drink, lashes fluttering. “Please confirm appointments with Deaton,Harris, and that filthy hippy Peter insisted was the next Lovecraft. Finstock, something or other.”

 

Stiles did as he was told; this part of the job was easy. He had a natural way with many of their clientele, his Omega-scent making it easy for them to trust him. That or he simply talked them into submission. It was an art, really.  He confirmed with all three of the possible clients, even going so far as to check the dates with Peter Hale, the more congenial if not somewhat creepy of Stiles's two bosses, and Mr. Hale;s uncle, partner and co-founder of Right Wolf Publishing.

 

The day dragged on, a seemingly endless orchestra of coffee, clients, cancellations, corrections, a brief lunch, and whatever else Mr. Hale thought to throw at him. Six thirty rolled around, the end of an eleven hour shift. He tucked his papers away neatly, leaving a polite but detailed note on his desk for whatever temp they'd hired, including his personal cell phone number and email should she have any difficulties.

 

He patted the pockets of his dress pants for his keys, wallet, and phone, confirming that they were there, before collecting his messenger bag. Knocking on Mr. Hale door frame, Stiles spoke quietly. “If that will be all Mr. Hale? I'd like to head home.” Hale looked nowhere near to finishing, but that was usual. Stiles sometimes wondered if he was a robot. The man couldn't possibly have any kind of life at all. Which was a pity because Stiles was sure a good lay could do him wonders.

 

Mr. Hale glanced at the clock and blinked in surprise. “Hmm. If you must. I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Stilinski .”

 

Stiles was too eager to get home to stop and correct the man.

 

*

 

Let it be known, Stiles did not like going into Heat. Oh sure, there were happily mated omega's out there who reveled in the total abandonment of their wits and senses, joyously handing over the brain-reigns to their cock.  His brother Scott being one - Scott had found and mated his highschool sweetheart at the tender age of sixteen, and barely knew what it was like to go alone during Heat Week.

 

Stiles is all for sex. Hello, he's an omega male; sexually, he just has way more options than the average guy, and every single one of them feels awesome. Knotting, knotted; doesn't matter to him. Man, woman- he’ll take both, thanks. To fill or be filled - that was the only question.

 

During Heat, it was different. It was desperate, and dirty, and demanding. Stiles was not a bitch, but when it came to Heat, he wanted to be fucked,and he wantsed to fuck and if he could possibly do both at the same time? Well shit, that’s  heaven. While he was all for occasionally taking or giving a knot any other week of the year, when it came to Heat...it was different. Primal. Private. Sharing a knot on Heat Week was special.

 

Heat's were intense on both the Omega and their partner; it wasn’t like he stuck his ass in the air and hoped to God someone knotted him. And fucking any hole would not do. No, Heat made him picky, made him want more from his partner, want someone capable, someone strong and solid, but pliable and willing. Omega's in heat were absolutely vicious, shaming even the most temperamental Alpha's on a good day. He became a rude, demanding, needy, sex-starved bastard when he was in heat, unapologetic, sorry, uncaring.

 

Basically he became Mr. Hale, but with more boners and less coffee.

 

It's the curse of an Omega; the glory of a knot and self lubrication. Stiles was the culmination of genetic lottery - he could give and make babies.

 

There was a reason Stiles only had four Heats a year.

 

He was on suppressants of course. There would be more if he wasn't; eight, ten, even twelve (mated Omega's go into mild heats monthly). There were suppressants out now that could stop a heat for a years time, but Stiles has heard the horror stories about coming off them, like ten Heat's slamming into you at once. It's not worth it to him thank you, he'll take his suffering in doses. They're too new, and the possibility of unknown side-effects scares the shit out of him.

 

So he stuck with the tried-and-true quarterly-heat suppressants, and went into heat once every three months and was intense. More intense, he assumed, than a monthly heat. Heat coiled in his belly, and the desperate itch of need settled at the base of his spine just thinking about it. This heat would be worse thsn usual. He'll be spending it alone.

 

Mr. Hale had been riding his ass so hard ( a delicious and awkward thought), he hadn't had time to procure himself a willing Alpha or Beta he trusted enough to spend a week in bed with. His tried-and-true beta Heat Buddy was out of town, and couldn't rebook. Stiles had planned on searching out another, but he just hadn't had the time.

 

It's going to suck. And it's all Mr. Hales fault.

 

Today was the first day. It won't be as bad as tomorrow. Today, suppressants still lingered in his system. Come tomorrow, his body will have flushed them clean. He was hot already, sweat beading at his temples and the back of his neck. He was anxious too, cock hard and trapped in his jeans. The urge is not so demanding yet that he couldn't ignore it. And he would ignore it, for as long as he coul, if just to prevent himself from jerking his cock raw.

 

Stiles held off for hours - it’s commendable really. If he had a partner, they’d have fucked themselves into a sweaty, come-stained nap by then.  Instead, Stiles was hunched over himself, panting and in pain, wanting what he couldn’t have. He held off, until he couldn’t anymore.

 

That night, he fucked himself down on the biggest dildo he owned, before coming all over his pillows, not-quite sated and and still terribly hard. He woke the next morning, humping down against his mattress, dildo seated deep in his ass. He was wet, but not quite wet enough. The Omega hormones produce just enough natural lubricants to keep knotting from hurting, but that's was it.

 

Stiles prefered lots of lube, liked it so squelching wet he could feel it dripping down his thighs. Still, he was  too far gone to care that he was just on the painful side of dry. He clenched his hole in a desperate attempt to pull the fake cock deeper. It was useless, and he cried out in frustration, reaching back to push it in hard and fast, ramming it against his prostate hard enough to send him sprawling face-first into the mattress. His cock ached, precome soaking the sheets beneath him. It wasn’t enough, not a knot, but it felt so good, Stiles groaned, open and loud and all alone.

 

Suddenly a shrill beep filled his room, his work phone he recognized vaguely, as he hurled the i-Phone across the room without a single care. He was on vacation, dammit.

 

He even ignored his personal cell phone.

 

But when his land-line rang, sharp and grating, he couldn’t  ignore it. The only person who ever called his land-line was his brother. And he knews this is a Heat week, knew to stear clear for anything short of an emergency. Panic filled him, doing nothing to quell his hard cock, as he stumbled, from the bed, to where the cordless sat atop his dresser.

 

“Scotty. Hey, hello. Hi. What?” It came out in a jumbled, panting mess. His dick bumped up against the brass knob of the dresser, cold against his heated flesh. He sucked in a breath and forced himself not to rut against the furniture. Clearing his throat, Stiles coughed lightly. “Um. What is it? Is everything alright?” He cupped his dick to his stomach, if only to keep it in check. Damn thing had a mind of it's own.

 

“Mr. Stilinski ?” It wasn’t his brother on the other end of the line. Stiles was going to kill someone.

 

“Mr. Hale. Was there something you needed? I'm on vacation.” He couldn’t keep the snipping, pissy tone out of his voice. He was on vacation.

 

Mr. Hale, in typical asshole style, wastes no time jumping to the point. “I need you to come in immediately. You're temp walked out in the middle of her shift, and left the entire place in chaos. I've been forced to cancel three appointments today, and send two to Peter! Everything is a mess. Papers are not where they should be, files are out of order. There are no sticky notes! What the hell am I suppose to do without a color-system? It’s chaos, Mr. Stilinski. This is unacceptable!”

 

Do what ever the hell you did before I came around, he thinks bitterly, as the color-system was all Stiles's idea. He slapped his head against the nearest wall, and the motion dislodged the dildo still shoved up his ass. It fell out with a wet squelch and a dull thump, leaving him open and aching, and not a little irritable.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Nothing,” he snapped, kicking the purple silicone cock aside. His hole twitched mournfully. “Alright. Where should these files and papers be, if not where they are?” The sooner he got this shit done, the sooner he could go back to fucking himself stupid. Was that so much to ask?

 

There was a pause, long enough to practicaly echo. Somewhere, a lone cricket chirped. “On my desk?” It came out like a question. Are you kidding me?

 

“Okay. One, the files do not live on your desk. They do not, in fact, belong there. I bring them. Which means they come from somewhere else. What the hell did you think, they magically appeared?”

 

Mr. Hale was aghast, Stiles just knew it. He could actually imagine the intensely offended expression his boss was probably making. His mouth would be pulled back in a little snarl, his brows would be pulled together, pinched.  It made Stile’s dick twitch and his knot throb, and hey, Stiles had never claimed to be a mentally healthy person.

 

“How dare you---”

 

“Va-ca-tion!” Stiles barks out, as his asshole leaking down his thigh. His whole body was screaming fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me.  He's squeezed his cock so hard it should hurt, but instead it just made heat pool angrily in his gut. “I am on my vacation. My scheduled vacation that I scheduled. The files and papers are in the cabinets by my desk, organized first alphabetically by genre, then author, and then book. I am sure that you, in all your infinite wisdom, glory, and Ivy-league education, can manage to navigate an alphabetically organized cabinet, Mr. Hale. As for post-its. I have post-its in my desk, a whole cacophony of rainbow colored post its and if you touch them, I will fucking cut you. Because frankly, I spend a lot of money on fucking post-its. Like, a lot. That shit is not comped because the office supply store doesn’t carry the size you fucking demanded I used!”

 

“Mr. Stilinski!”

 

“MR. HALE!” Stiles all but roared, hips thrusting forward as he fucked into his fist. He would never, ever think to talk to his boss like that outside of Heat, but for fucks sake, he needed to come. He couldn't physically help it. If he wasn’t  getting fucked or fucking, he wasn’t a happy omega. And thanks to Mr. Hale, he wasn’t getting fucked or fucking, so he'll be as pissy as he pleases, thank you. “No! If you need help, call Lydia at Peter's office.”

 

‘'I don't think—'’

 

“I do. I really, really do,” Stiles insisted firmly, falling back onto the bed with a thump. “She's number six on the speed dial. She knows where everything is.”

 

Lyndia use to be Mr. Hale’s  P.A., but he highly doubted his boss remembered. Peter had rescued Lydia from Mr. Hale’s fierce reign before Stiles was hired. He still kind of hoped some devastatingly attractive man would come and steal him too. Maybe Mr. Parrish, Head of Sales. Hell, he'd even take Erica in editing, and that girl was like, super scary. Hot, but terrifying.

 

“Mr. Stilinski !” Mr. Hale roared right back, a growl that vibrated through his voice. And oh God, Stiles was going to come from it alone. “You will come in and do your job, or you will no longer have one.”

 

Stiles snarled, fingers clenching on his not as it swelled slightly in his fist. “You can’t do that! It's in my contract! One week, every three months. It's a scheduled hea---”

 

“Stiles” Mr. Hale’s voice took on a tone that Stiles, as an Omega, could not resist. It was a rich, deep rumble. It was also a little bit desperate, and Stiles found that he liked it, his name strung out in a growl. “Please. I don't need Ms. Martin. I need you.” And that...not matter how he meant it, Stiles liked the sound of that. He liked it so much so that he came silently all over his stomach, biting his lip so hard he tastes blood.

 

Apparently, he’d lost his fucking mind, blown it straight out of his dick. “Fine,” Stiles snapped, clenching his teeth as the muscles of his stomach jump and twitch with the aftershocks of his orgasm. “Just let me grab a shower, and get dressed---”

 

“Unacceptable.” Mr. Hale no longer sounds desperate. Just demanding. Stiles rolls his eyes. “I don't care what you wear. Just get here now.”

 

“Fine.”

 

Stiles didn’t shower, just left the come on his stomach to cool and dry. He threw on admittedly nice t-shirt on with a pair of jeans that had seen better days but do wonder for his ass. It was better than the fucking khakis and yellow polos he wore at the office, at any rate. What he’s wearing wouldn’t matter, in the end. He smelled like sweat, and sex, and Heat, and he knew it. But Mr. Hale wanted him there now, and apparently, what Mr. Hale wanted, he got.

 

And Stiles would be the one to give it to him.  

 

When he arrived, he knew without a doubt that every Beta, Omega, and Alpha on the block could smell him. The humans couldn’t, but they didn’t need too. Their reactions are instinctual, hearts, pounding, mouths falling open, breath shortening. He was one big walking pheromone, should have been at home in bed fucking himself stupid, but he wasn’t. He was there, making his way as calm as he could, to Mr. Hale's office on the twenty-seventh floor.

 

The elevator ride was almost enough to make him come again. Three betas and a human, and every single one of them were wet for him. One of the betas, a young man, looks like he could come in his pants at the proximity of Stiles. It was heady, the scent of them and the high he gets from that power-play alone? Pre-come welled at the tip of his cock, soaking through the front of his jeans in a noticeable stain. They weren’t what he wanted though; he wanted an Alpha. And he knew just where to find one, too.

 

The lobby of Mr. Hale's office was empty of clients, but behind Stiles's desk was a frantic looking Lydia. The relief on her face when she was him vanished in a snap as soon as he was in scenting-distance. Lydia was staring at him with wide eyes and nostrils flared. She was a beta, and his heat was enough knock her silent the second she caught his scent.

 

“Which particular file is Mr. Hale having such difficulty locating?” His voice was rough with arousal and restraint. He knew there was a distinct possibility he'd run into Peter -another alpha- but at that point, he didn’t care. He was pretty sure Peter would welcome him shamelessly into his office, anyway. If things didn’t pan out with Mr. Hale, at least he had a back-up.

 

“Stiles,” Lydia began, her voice soothing and calm. Pointlessly soothing and calm. “You can’t go in there.”

 

Stiles shot her a feral grin. “It's as easy as opening the door.” He leaned his hip against the desk and pushes the red intercom button on the phone. “Mr. Hale, which files did you say were missing?”

 

“Finally, some one competent. The Deaton files,” he growled, but the relief in Mr. Hale’s voice is almost palpable. Competent. In Hale-speak, that was pretty much a commendation. Stiles preened a little, but no one could judge him. An Alpha was praising him, after all.

 

He clicked the intercom off and growled.“I left the Deaton Files on his desk last night,” he told Lydia, who was still giving him a wide-eyed look, while not so subtly cringing against the edge of the desk. He could fuck her, and she might even let him, but it isn't what he wants, so he pushes the thought away (it isn’t' easy; she smells awesome). “Which means they're probably sitting on his fucking desk, where I left them.” Either that or the ass-hole took them home and forgot about them. Which is why Stiles always kepy back-ups. In triplicate hard-copy, two flash-drives and on his personal computer. God-forbid Mr. Hale not have his fucking files.

 

“Stiles,” Lydia grabbed his arm. She pulled her hand back almost instantly, probably shocked by the heat of his skin. He’d reached full-Heat. The highest peak, a peak he might add, that would probably last two-to-three days. “You can’t go in there like that! Are you crazy? Of course you are. You just want a knot! Or to knot!” She colored a little at her own words; knotting was a no-no subject with an Omega, generally speaking. You never knew who you might offend by making assumptions. Luckily, Stiles's was the type who wanted it all.

 

Unabashedly, Stiles agreed. “You're not wrong. And you know what? I bought one. It's big and purple and lying on my floor where I dropped it when Mr. Hale called and demanded I come in on my contractually scheduled time off.” Contractual; it's in his freaking contract! “So yeah!”

 

Lydia bit her lip, eyes flashing towards the door. She was a pretty, well-off Beta with a list of willing partners as long as the Gettysburg address. She'd never had to go it alone, and she couldn't sympathize. “Look,” she said, slow and sure. “Why don't I take these to Mr. Hale and you go visit Peter? I'm sure he'd be happy to have you. Delighted, even. ”

 

It was a perfectly sound idea, one that probably wouldn’t get him fired, but no. No, Stiles wanted Mr. Hale. He wanted to fuck him up. Fuck him up so bad the poor man couldn’t look him in the eye ever again. Of course, if Mr. Hale was adamantly against it, Stiles would pull himself away. Rejection was a sour scent, not at all conductive to fucking. Should his boss turn his snobby nose up to Stiles like he would a cup of hipster-coffee, Stiles would gladly carry his ass to Peter, and proceed to get fucked as loudly as possible.

 

“No,” Stiles decided, a smirk painted across his face. “No, Mr. Hale was absolutely adamant that I come now. And I intend to.”

 

Lydia laughs, knowing he wouldn't be persuaded otherwise. Omega's were stubborn to a fault. “Smells like you already did.”

 

“Oh I'm sure I've got a few more in me.” He tucked the files against his chest, and that’s when the other scent hit him, hard and fast like a punch to the gut. Peter.

 

It was distracting, to say the least. Because as much as Stiles wanted to fuck Mr. Hale seven ways to Sunday, there was a perfectly viable Alpha not ten feet away, fists clenched and nostrils flared. It was definitely distracting.

 

Peter looked like he wanted it too, eyes bright as they skip-skittered over every single inch of Stiles, come-stains and all. But his gaze flickered to poor, unsuspecting Mr. Hale office door, and he grinned. “Good boy.”

 

Stiles grinned.

 

Mr. Hale was standing behind his desk, his phone pressed to his ear with one hand, the other hand pinching at the bridge of his nose. The files he requested were as Stiles assumed, sitting in a neat pile on the corner of Mr. Hale desk, beneath a messy stack of papers Stiles had nothing to do with.

 

“No, absolutely not. Unacceptable. Because it's in his contract. Tell Deucalionif he backs out, Right Wolf will drag his sorry ass to court. I'm running a business here, not----” Mr. Hale's words were cut short when Stiles reached over and tugged the phone out of his hand.

 

Bringing it to his ear, he cleared his throat. “Good morning Ms.Morell. Yes, this is Stiles Stilinski, Mr. Hale's personal assistant -we’ve spoke before. Please let your client know he is fully welcome to file a request for a third-time extension, but at a costly compensation out of his final pay-packet. All of which I am Deucalion knows, as he's already filed for the two free extensions Right Wolf offers it's authors. I understand that deadlines can be hard, but no one told him he had to take up writing as a career.”

 

Stiles gracelessly upended the messy stack of folders from the corner of the desk and ignored his bosses fish-mouthed expression as he continued. “Mr. Hale however, chose publishing, a career he has manages to excel at when his authors aren't trying to pinch him for free time. I assure you, Right Wolf ng publishing house has been more than generous with your client, but we're running a business, not a charity. Have a nice day.” He hit the END CALL button and tossed the phone into the fake ficus pot behind Mr. Collin's desk. “The Harvel files,” hesaid , holding up the color-coded folders he’d unearthed. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Hale?”

 

Mr. Hale’s bright hazel gaze was pinned on him, dark lashes painting shadows down his stubbly cheek. “You're in heat, Mr. Stilinski .” It wasn’t a question. Stiles was peaking hard and fast, brought on twice as quickly in the presence of not one, but two viable a viable Alpha’s He's pretty sure Mr. Parish would drop by the office too, if called. Stiles has options and his body knows it. He’d fuck them all, if he could.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Mr. Hale's nostrils flared, and he gripped the back of his computer chair with violent force. The leather ripped beneath his nails, exposing the yellow foam below. “You should be home.”

 

Snorting, Stiles nodded slowly, and leaned toward his boss  over the desk, his hands splayed out across the paper-strewn top. “Yes, sir.”

 

Mr. Hale swallowed, and Stiles followed a bead of sweat as it raced down his throat. “You should...you should return home, Mr. Stilinski .” It was the first time Stiles has ever heard his firm voice falter. “I apologize for bringing you out in your....condition.”

 

Stiles could smell it now, and it's certainly not the sour smell of rejection. Hell, Lydia could probably smell it outside the door, and her nose was never all that great. Mr. Hale wanted him; his arousal was almost as heady as Stiles's own. It filled the room and threatened to suffocate him in the sweetest way possible. It was delicious torture; made his mouth water and his dick twitch.

 

Stiles straightened up, as if he was really going to leave. He had no intentions of heading for the door, of course. What he wanted was right in front of him. “If that's all you need.” He turned away, grinning to himself.

 

Mr. Hale hesitated for half a second, his whole body jerking towards Stiles. He could see it in the reflection of the fancy one-way frosted glass walls lining Mr. Hale office.

 

“Perhaps...perhaps you should take someone with you. To see you home safely.” Mr. Hale’s mouth curled up into a snarl, teeth bared like something feral.

 

Stiles stopped, his hand curled over the door knob. It was startling cool against his heated palms. Looking back, he flashed his boss a grin. “I'm not going home, Mr. Hale.”

 

“Oh.” Mr. Hale eyes fluttered down, over and across his messy desk. “Did I...pull you away from someone? I wasn't aware you were seeing anyone.”

 

“I don't have time for anyone but you, Mr. Hale.” It came out like the line it was meant to be, flirty and leading. “But no, you didn't pull me away from anyone. I'd intended to see myself through this heat. Lucky me though; as I was coming in, I ran into Peter.”

 

“Peter is a very busy man,” Mr. Hale snapped, his whole body vibrating on a sub vocal growl. He looked so completely wrecked, so undone, it was all Stiles could do not to shove the poor man into the chair and mount him. “He has clients.”

 

“Your clients,” Stiles volleyed back.“Isn't that right? But you have your files now, so I can only assume Peter schedule is clear.” Letting his hand slip from the knob, Stiles turned, and presses his back against the door. “Will that be all, Mr. Hale? I'm sure you have a full schedule ahead of you.” This is the out. If Mr. Hale asked him to stay...that was consent.

 

 

Mr. Hale shoved his chair aside and leaned over his desk. “Actually,” he growled lightly, as he tipped the neat stack of Deaton’s files to the floor. “My schedule is surprisingly clear.”

 

Stiles didn’t bother with any witty rejoinders. Not this time, anyway. Instead, he peeled his shirt off as he crossed the office, dropping it on top of the pile of papers with zero care. His mouth was on Mr. Hale before another word could be said.  

 

Mr. Hale's hands were as firm as his words, pushing and pulling at Stiles in a way that was somehow both desperate and controlled at once. He pushed at Stiles's shoulder, but Stiles won't budge. As much as he'd love to take it, bent over expensive mahogany, he had a different plan in mind.

 

“No,” Stiles growled, biting his boss’s mouth sharply. Mr. Hale eyes flashed, natural instinct to do as he wished warring against his inclinations to please his Omega.

 

His Omega, Stiles thought deliriously. That’s what I am.

 

He leaned back, and looked up at Stiles, wordless and expectant. He was clearly humoring Stiles, but Stiles didn’t care. He was getting what he wanted from Derek fucking Hale.

 

What he wanted was to fuck the man couldn't think straight.

 

It took a special kind of Alpha to let an Omega  knot them. There weren’t many who would stoop so low as to be dominated. Mr. Hale would. . Because if he didn’t, Stiles would leave, and Mr. Hale clearly didn’t want that.

 

Stiles grabbed his collar and ripped Mr. Hale’s shirt open, scattering buttons across the marble floor. Mr.Hale jerked in surprise, but let the expensive material slither to the floor as Stiles worked his belt open. That went flying over Stiles's shoulder; the heavy buckle hitting the wall just as Mr. Hale pants hit the floor.

 

Mr. Hale went commando. “I wouldn't have taken you for the type,” Stiles commented, dancing his fingertip down his boss’s cock. Mr. Hale twitched in his palm. He was rigid against the desk, clearly unsure where to go from there. There was no protocol to follow when fucking your secretary, after all.

 

“Mr. Stilinski .” He was  growing impatient; it was a tone Stiles is far too familiar with.

 

Stiles circles his fingers around the Alpha's cock, letting his thumb catch on the foreskin. “You can call me Stiles.”

 

“You can call me Mr. Hale,” the Alpha grunted in reply, head falling back. Stiles laughs; kinky bastard. “What do you want?”

 

A lovely question. Stiles didn’t speak, just grabbed the man by his hips, and spun him. He pushing at his back, forcing the Alpha belly down across the messy desk . The phone fell off the edge, as did the stapler and the pen cup and the name plate and whatever else Mr. Hale kept there. They added to the growing pile of things on the floor, though neither Mr. Hale nor Stiles notice.

 

Stiles laid himself up against his body, rutted against the hard muscles and coarse, wiry hair of Mr. Hale’s heights. It was all very lovely but Stiles needed to knot; nothing else seems all that important, in comparison.

 

The head of his dick caught at Mr. Hale’s dry hole. “I wanna fuck you.”

 

“What?” Mr. Hale jerked beneath him, but not enough to send him sprawling. It wasn’t in struggle, it was in surprise. “Mr. Stilinski ---”

 

“Stiles,” he corrected, nipping Mr. Hale's jaw sharply. The man shivered like a caged tiger beneath him, but held himself still. “Are you going to let me?”

 

“Stiles.” Plaintive. Pleading. Stiles worked a hand up under his belly, and gripped at his dick. Mr. Hale was hard enough to pound nails, the base of his dick already starting to swell, already starting to knot nothing at all, that’s how bad he wanted it “Fuck,” Mr.Hale growls, arching into Stiles touch, back bent like a taut bow. It’s fucking beautiful.

 

“Yeah, that's right,” Stiles said, cocky and sure as he fucked his dick between Mr. Hale's ass cheeks, the head of his cock skating across his balls. “I'm going knot you until you fucking scream, just like you make me want to scream every. Goddamn. Day.” The words are punctuated with brutal thrusts. “But I'm not going to let you come. I'm not going to let you blow your load, Mr. Hale. Do you know why?”

 

“Because you’d enjoy unemployment, Mr. Stilinski?” Mr. Hale snarled, and Stiles hissed when he saw his boss’s nails elongate, sharp talons carving lines into the wood of the desk.

 

Not many could still do that, could shift. The feral gene was mostly dormant now, leaving them with no outward characteristics, save for the knot and the self-lubrication. And those who could, don't; it wasn’t not considered polite for company. It certainly answered a few questions as to why Mr. Hale was so damn repressed, so damn snappy. Stiles’s had never seen so much as a hint of canine from Mr. Hale, had no idea what his boss was clearly capable off. Mr. Hale had a goddamn beast under his skin. Stiles wanted it.

 

His brain shorted for a second, hips stuttering against Mr. Hale's ass as he imagined Mr.Hale’s dragging his fangs across Stiles throat, with a special kind of gentle cruely. Stiles wondered if his fangs were showing now, if he could bite Stiles right now and make him bleed.  He pulled his hips away for half a moment, so close to coming he felt breathless with it.

 

“Fuck,” Stiles hissed, getting his hands on Mr. Hale's jaw, and jerking his head back so he could see his face. Sure enough, Mr. Hale's sharpened canines were biting into his plump bottom lip. “Fuck,” Stiles said again, panting. “No, I'm not going to let you come because I'm gonna let you fuck me when I’m done.”

 

Mr. Hale roared, a quacking sound ripped from the back of his throat. He dropped his head down to the desk, angling his ass up like a slutty omega and not the Alpha he was. It did dirtybadwrong things to Stiles's brain, to have an Alpha, a feral Alpha, submitting beneath him.

 

Stiles was going to fuck that so hard.

 

Shoving his jeans father down, reacheed between his own legs, gathering slick onto his fingers. He was soaked now, dripping down his legs, drenching his thighs. He smeared it down the crack of Mr. Hale's ass, fingers probing at his hole. He wasn’t as tight as Stiles would have expected.

 

“God Derek,” he murmured, pushing one finger, and then two in, with almost no resistance. “I'm learning all kinds of secrets about you.”

 

Mr. Hale just growled, and it wasn’t a human sound. It was an Alpha sound, a Feral sound, that made Stiles whine, mades him want to roll over and show his belly, or maybe his ass. He pushed past it, before pushing a cruel third finger into his boss.

 

The prep was fast, and hard, and wet and quickly over. Mr. Hale's ass gave to Stiles dick slowly, his own slick greasing the way, and Stiles didn’t stop till he was bottomed out, the slight swell of his knot pushing at the rim.

 

“Mr. Stilinski ,” Hale snapped between his sharp teeth. “It would be in your best interest, not to mention your job security, for you to fuck me right now.” He was using his boss-voice and Stiles couldn't even handle it. His dick throbbed, knot swelling fractionally. He wasn’t going to last long, but that hardly mattered. He was in Heat. Refract time was like zero to sixty.

 

Still, Stiles did as he was told, drawing all the way out and slamming back in. Mr. Hale's body was a furnace of heat, and he worked with Stiles, curling his back in just the right way, rolling against Stiles like a wave crashing on the shore.

 

Stiles licked at the sweat on Mr. Hale's shoulder, liked the salt on his tongue. Mr. Hale pushed into him harder, a silent plea for more, and Stiles wash helpless to deny him. He fucked and fucked and fucked, sinking his teeth into Mr. hale, where shoulder meets neck.

 

His whole body locked, arching back so hard against Stiles, he nearly bucked him off. It set in motion the inevitable. Stiles forces himself deeper inside, grinding his cock in tight circles as Mr. Hale shuddered. He almost doesn't catch it, Mr. Hale's orgasm, but Stiles gets a hand around his boss’s dick just in time, circling his fingers tight around the base, but above the knot - he doesn’t come, can’t.

 

And that, that if nothing else, is what does it. Mr. Hale's reaction was violent. He bucked hard against Stiles, pushing his ass back as he tried to free himself from Stiles's hand, or fuck into it. It was futile, but it tore Stiles's orgasm out of him with breath-taking force, knot ballooning so fast it made him dizzy, made the rooms spin.

 

Mr. Hale growled louder, as Stiles came down from the initial haze, his dick still pouring come with violent little bursts, mini nova orgasms wracking his body.

 

“I need to come,” he demanded, just like he demanded files, and coffee, and lunch, and Swedish massage appointments. “Now, Mr. Stilinski!” He fucked forward into Stiles hand, gasping when it pulled at Stiles knot.

 

Stiles laughed, grinding into him, his fingers still making a tight, restricting circle around Mr. Hale's dick. “No. I don't think so; you get to stay like this. We've got....oh, fifteen minutes like this. Maybe half an hour; I was really worked up.”

 

Mr. Hale threw back his head, knocking his skull into Stiles's mouth. His lips split, the tangy taste of blood bursting on his tongue. “Mr. Stilinski ,” Mr. Hale spoke, sounding for all the world the dangerous creature he really was. “When we unknot---”

 

“I'm going to flip you over and ride you like a fucking bull,” Stiles told him, with no room for argument.

 

Mr. Hale made a noise, and pushed back on Stiles's dick again like a filthy little slut.  He’d never fucked an Alpha like this - an Alpha who wanted it so bad. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to give it up.  “Acceptable.”

 

-End.

 

 

 


End file.
